It's like a scene out of a comedy sketch as we file off the bus in one huge mass, still pressed together like we’ve been stuck with glue. The roads around the stadium are cordoned off in a three-block radius, and I follow along with the throngs of supporters. Navy Yard looms ahead, the structure of brick and steel situated right on the edge of the harbor. Flags hanging from light poles flap in the wind, and I knot my scarf tighter around my neck.
The rain has slowed to a heavy misting, and I feel that memorable pregame thrill, chanting along with the more familiar odes to our beloved team as the blue mass shuffles along. It’s been so long since I’ve been to a match in person, I’d almost forgotten the electrical energy being in the crowd can bring. I don’t know some of the newer songs the fans have made up inrecent years, but the old standbys garner a loud roar as the whole street of people joins in. It’s almost enough to make me forget to be nervous about seeing Prince Friedrich. I assume I’ll be meeting the famous Miles today, too. I’m not sure why that makes me more anxious; it’s not like I’m his girlfriend or anything.
The will call line is long, but thankfully moves quickly. I give my name to the attendant who, after a quick search, looks at me with wide eyes.
“Ma’am, you didn’t have to wait,” he squeaks. “You could have used the Admiral’s Club entrance.”
“Oh, sorry.” I blush. “It was no problem really. But, um, whereisthe Admiral’s Club entrance?”
“West gate, on the dockside opposite here, ma’am.” He gestures over his shoulder.
“Oh,” I say again. I didn’t even know there was such an entrance on the side of the stadium that sits along the docks. “I’ll just walk around then.”
“Oh, no, ma’am. I’ll call an escort.”
I can feel the eyes of the others behind me in line boring into the back of my head as the attendant picks up a phone and speaks quickly to whoever is on the other end.
He sets down the phone and says to me, “Please wait just to the right there, Lady Sumner. Someone will be by in a jiffy to take you around.”
“Thank you,” I mumble, still not quite sure about this kind of treatment. “And I’m not a lady.”
“Sorry, ma’am. Yes, ma’am,” he stutters.
I wait where I was shown, glad to no longer beholding up the line. Mere moments later, a man in a black suit and a navy blue beanie pulls up in a golf cart.
“Lady Sumner?” he asks.
“Not Lady,” I repeat. “Just Aurelia is fine.”
The man nods, the bauble on his hat bobbing along, and indicates the seat next to him. “Come with me, Miss Sumner. I’ll bring you ‘round to the proper gate.”
We pass throngs of supporters still streaming towards the park, and I catch a few stares as my driver beeps his little horn to guide us through the crowds. I avert my eyes, half shamed, half embarrassed with my VIP treatment. I’d always looked on in wonder at those who were being chauffeured around the stadium, wondering who they were or what they did to garner such service. It’s odd being on the other side of it. Thankfully, the crowds thin as we make our way around the stadium to the dockside.
Another black suited attendant is waiting at the gate when the cart pulls to a stop.
“Lady Sumner.” He inclines his head as he holds the gate open for me.
I don’t correct this one. It doesn’t seem to matter anyway. I am subjected to a much more thorough security screening than I’m accustomed to at a football match. I suppose Iamabout to step into a box with some of the richest and most important people in the country.
“Hello there, darling!” Princess Beatrix calls, waving over her head with wiggling fingers asshe steps off the elevator while I’m putting myself back together from my intense search and pat down.
She looks so different from the woman who had escorted me around the ballroom at the palace a couple of nights ago. Her short blonde hair sticks out at odd angles under a knit baubled beanie of navy blue and white. She wears a matching oversized sweater with the Portyard badge on the left breast and skinny jeans that make her legs appear a mile long. I stifle a giggle realizing we wore the same shoes—the uniform of both our generations—tattered black Chuck Taylors. She’s replaced the standard white laces with rainbow colored ones. Seeing her so casual calms my nerves.This really is just a football match with some new acquaintances.
“Well, don’t you look just fit for a downpour,” she trills as she takes both my hands in hers. She goes in for a cheek-to-cheek kiss and whispers, “Fritz sent me to collect you. Draws fewer questions.”
The prince’s cousin leads me to the same elevator she had taken down, still holding one of my hands. She is apparently taking her role in this little story very seriously.
She rounds on me as the doors close. Gone is the blithe and smiling princess. The hard expression on her face makes my stomach clench, and I believe this woman could drag information out of even the best-trained spy. My back bends under the weight of her stare. But I don’t look away.
“Miss Aurelia, you have some explaining to do, I think.”
Explaining?We know basically nothing about each other, only meeting two days ago. I had thought the night went well. The princess had seemed to enjoy the cocktail party and was more than happy to drag me along all night.
“I did a little digging on you, Nanny Sumner. Or should I say Graf?”
Hearing my father’s last name has me swallowing around a lump in my throat. “I haven’t been Graf in more than ten years.”
“Be that as it may,” Princess Beatrix says with a sniff. “You are related to the Countess Lady Sarah Graf, are you not?”
